The River Collector

© 1996 Abraham R. Nox
All rights reserved.

Dark woman, I only rise at night.
Like the dappled moon,
Which, moistened by my presence,
Is a witness transformed
From dull celestial rock
To fluid mercurial art.
He drowns and scrawls his signature
Across my face, like a benediction.

I'm wearing my best stars for the occasion.
The pine-tinctured wind and days of steadfast rain
Agitate my skin.
Storm-stroked, I bloat with longing,
Dilating outward like the shadows of a halo.

Bats and birds, I rarely gather.
All others: mine.
Even lightening honors my invitation,
He moves through me like a seizure in the brain.
I like him.
Finger by finger, muttering through reeds, rocks
Brambles and fields,
I abscond with the human desirables.
I want all of my descendants returned to me.
After all, their bodies bear more of my essence
Than earth or chemistry can claim.

They're mine; I was the initial womb.
And the sacred peaty leaves, the abandoned boot,
The capsized boat, the breathing creatures
Living or dead, I want them back.

I digest these candidates with ravenous respect
Before the writhing worm feast,
Before the rot transaction can commence.
I am far more considerate, you see.
And many choose to park their deaths in me.
I keep a skeleton in my throat, still
Clinging to his chains and concrete mask.

I want more than the treasures of silica,
Sludge and fishy populations
Stirring around in my veins.
I need their blood.
The thought of this reunion
Excites my depths. I swell,
Gnawing on yards of earth and sand,
Bank and hollow.
Indiscriminate Hunger,
Night after night
I swallow houses, horses, barns,
Plows, cars, cats, pigs, cows.

I am the River Collector.
Moss Green and scarlet-freckled,
Like the Bloodstone.
An inventory of my deep domain
Would certainly reveal,
The missing bibelot of her pelvic bone,
The broken amulet of his noble skull
Which I found such a challenge to pronounce.

They must think I like their dismal offerings
Of toxins, plastics, bleach and gasoline.
Styrofoam, beercans: the cultural detritus of excess.
But the soggy remains of seed, stump, fencepost, chicken wire
Are not as salty pleasing as their living human blood.

Back to top of page